Page 44 of Dark Lover

Maclean rushed to the elevator, then knew he couldn’t go inside. Not just then, with the images rioting in his head.

You lived through sixty-six years of hell. And that makes death acceptable!

She had discovered the truth so quickly! He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall by the elevator, his knees weak, shaking like a leaf. Damn her for daring to understand him, for daring to unearth his secrets! What else did she know? Suddenly he recalled the maze.

He kept running and running, desperate to find freedom. He was running into walls and dead ends, the maze endless, treacherous. And when he turned at a dead end, a demon awaited him, a beautiful blond human-looking demon who was reaching out…Or he’d turn the corner to find a monster with claws and fangs, drooling in anticipation…

Ian seized his head, moaning. The monk had devised the maze on their first New Year’s Eve together and it had become a tradition. He’d been promised his freedom if he could find the one way out. It had been the cruelest game of all, because he’d never found his way out. Instead there had been demons and beasts, eager to get their hands on him. The game would last days, even weeks. And when they were done with him, he was so ill that the monk would bring in a white Healer to heal him.

He hadn’t thought about the maze in a long time and he wished he hadn’t thought about it now. It was one of his worst memories, the most frightening one. It made him sick with fear, even now. But it felt as if he was back in it and this time, the prize wasn’t his freedom. If he could navigate his way through the corners and halls, he would keep his secrets.

How could they have a file on him!

Had she seen it?

He was going to explode if he didn’t get a grip—if he didn’t find control. And he knew what lay on the other side of the explosion. All the repression would shatter, and there would only be the memories facing him, raw and gaping, like bleeding wounds, injuries no surgeon could ever stitch, and then he’d give in to the insanity.

He tried to breathe and failed. There was no more air to be had! Fear began, then escalated. He hadn’t had a genuine panic attack in five and a half years.

“Calm down,” he gritted aloud. “Calm down, think…”

Did they know about the cage? Did they know about the maze? The other Innocent? Did they know about Moray’s visits?

Did they know that in those first few months, he’d been an utter coward? That he’d wept in terror and sobbed for mercy? Did they?

Did they know he’d been turned into a willing slave at the end?

What did they know?

What did she know?

And he still couldn’t breathe. Now, he’d never get into that elevator, because he was shaking and moisture had gathered in his eyes. But there was a staircase on every floor, he’d made certain. If he could stop the moisture from blurring his vision, all he had to do was go down the hall to find it. But then what?

“Sir.”

He felt the ice-cold washcloth against his forehead. Gerard knew. He knew because his father had sent him to Ian, not that Ian had known it at the time. His damned father had wanted someone with him who knew his secrets, who could and would take care of him.

Gerard spoke as if nothing was happening. He laid the cloth against his forehead as if he were a nurse, not a butler. An image suddenly flashed, of Sam in her bloody jersey dress, pretending she hadn’t seen him stab John repeatedly, all control gone.

Remind me not to piss you off.

He almost smiled. She should have been terrified of him. She hadn’t been afraid at all. But then, she didn’t fear anything or anyone. She was reckless and brave…

They had been rivals from the start. He had to remember that. He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes, holding the washcloth to his head now. Oddly, he had become calmer. He kept seeing her in that dress, poker-faced. He kept hearing that tone, wry and calm. She should have looked horrible, a bloody mess—instead, she looked frigging great.

Gerard held a small bottle in his hand, containing his prescription medication. Ian nodded grimly and Gerard handed him two tiny white pills. When it was this bad, it was better to take prescription drugs than blow or pot. He swallowed the anti-anxiety medication without water. Gerard was indispensable and he was discreet. “Thank you.”

“You’ll feel better shortly, sir. I’ll bring a tray with a very fine red wine and just a bite to snack on.”

He wasn’t hungry. Food didn’t interest him, but Gerard always insisted. But wine and Ativan were a great combination. He’d relax enough to sit down and force himself to eat. He might even enjoy Louis’s gourmet cooking.

When Gerard left, he looked at the elevator door. His control was tenuous, if that. But he was clinging to that recollection of Sam in her bloody dress, acting indifferent to his breakdown. He could admit that he admired her strength.

He was still sweating. He still felt raw. He ripped off the sweater and jammed the button. The door instantly opened and he stared at the wood-paneled interior, which was lit to his exact specifications, as bright as any midtown office. He breathed harder. Every time he got into an elevator it was a matter of mind over memory. But he’d learned twenty-five years ago how to force himself to get inside and act as if he were as normal as everyone else. It was a test to do so now.

He cursed himself. He did not want to be a coward who suffered from panic attacks and claustrophobia. He cursed Sam—because she knew most of his secrets now and if she weren’t so damned sexual he’d walk away and never look back. She’d figure out he was claustrophobic before long, he thought, and add it to her list of his weaknesses. Gritting, he got inside.

Panting, he stared at the Close button. Last night, upstairs, it had been easy to avoid the elevator. Sam hadn’t suspected a thing.